Picture thanks to Paul Militaru
Lovehearts and butterflies,
connected by brittle bones,
harmonise a scale of chords
separated once by melancholy
and disenchantment
of past players –
such echoes still permeate
the dried staff of veins that course
with forgotten music only
daylight hears – its
fixed stare resists sleep
behind sepia expectations
of blossoming love, and will fight
one last blink,
relentless against the weight of twilight,
so that lovehearts and butterflies
do not just become yesterday’s leaves
lingering on autumn’s hand,
reluctant to let go
whilst there is still a chance for
love to come.
As it Comes 